I've Got Your Back
by Child of Loki
Summary: Callen has severed all ties to his life and been deep undercover for months when the last person he expected to see pops up at the wrong time. A story of friendship, loyalty and trust. (GENRE: ACTION!)
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: (Oops... almost forgot... like I could forget that I don't own them... _sigh_... but at least I can play with them!) I do not own _NCIS: LA _or its characters...**

**Author's Note: I started writing this one quite a while ago (easily over six months… maybe a year…), but it's looking to be too long for just the two-shot I had envisioned. Plus, I think I need encouragement to keep working on it and finish it up ;-) *hint hint***

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**PART ONE: CALLEN**

**Chapter One: Unexpected Guest…**

The schematic became clear as Sam Hanna's voice directed his focus. Of course, it was all in his mind. But that didn't make it any less useful. Agent G Callen opened his eyes and traced the paths of wires and leads, knowing where he needed to connect the wire he currently held with the insulated forceps. First problem solved; He now remembered how to connect the timer to the detonation switch. The question was... should he?

If he did create a completely functional device, would he be able to stop them from detonating it if they intended to cause destruction and death? Or would he be able to warn his team despite the fact that they weren't backing him up on this operation? Agreeing with Hetty's assessment of the case and her recommendation for a course of action, Callen had gone deep under, cut off all ties. He was on his own. And for the first time in his life, it made him uncomfortable. He missed Sam's wise cracks, Kensi and Deeks' ridiculous teasing and flirting, Hetty's more subtle wit and her not-as-subtle-as-she'd-like matronly concern, as well as Eric and Nell's bubbling enthusiasm. But most of all, Callen missed having people -no,_ friends _that he trusted, that had his back covered.

This group of... well, best described as sociopaths and psychopaths with an anarchist bent... they didn't have each others' backs. They didn't have anyone's back. They trusted no one and suspected everyone. In fact, they had just come down from 'full suspicion' level on his presence and it had been months. Months of his building them various IEDs and home made bombs and their test detonating random ones, so that he never knew if the device he were building would be used to destroy a government building, kill innocent people, or put a small dent in the backwoods of Modoc County.

No. What if this was just another test? And if he failed, they would know it was no accident. He had proven his proficiency in bomb-building and they'd know any failure to be an intentional one. He was in this alone. It was his decision. His burden. He'd be a dead man if any device didn't perform properly. And who would he be helping then? No one. These psychos would just acquire another bomb technician and move on with their plan... whatever _that _was. So, best he properly connect the timer.

"What's this?"

Callen hadn't survived this long by being jumpy, yet still the declaration caused him to lose his grip on the wire. Moody had been the one who'd spoken. Shouted really, which seemed to be the hillbilly's standard setting. Not surprising since the man probably hadn't spent more than a handful of days in a house. The scrawny, scraggly man had no 'inside voice.' Whatever Sloan's master plan was, it couldn't include stealth, at least not with Moody present.

Whatever the conversation, it was happening at the other end of the hangar, near the main entrance, and Callen had no reason to interfere (or spy), so he gingerly picked up the wire once more and attempted to solder it in place.

And then there was a loud 'thunk.' He recognized the noise as Little John (nicknamed for the blatant irony and surely not the literary reference, for they were no merry band of do-gooding thieves) throwing his Bowie knife to embed itself into the mangled remains of an arm chair. Doubtless, the big man had been cleaning his fingernails with the razor sharp point again. (Callen had to sometimes wonder at the clichés this motley crew seem to embody.) Little John was a psycho with a prediliction for violence, and was easily bored when not called upon for bashing heads. So it was no surprise to hear the heavy clomp of the man's boots echo around the space as he headed for Moody's loud voice.

Callen attempted to focus on the work at hand once again. Just a little bit more...

Sighing, he set the forceps and soldering gun aside on the cluttered, grease-stained work table. There was definitely a commotion at the other end of the abandoned bush plane hangar. And to be honest, he'd be grateful for the distraction. He couldn't ever completely dispel the thoughts about who the terrible little devices he built might affect-_injure or kill_. He looked to the 'leader' of this little band of psychotics.

Sloan, a man in his mid-fifties with a forgettable face and of an average build, dressed in as nondescript clothing as his features (jeans, work boots, a shirt maybe dark blue, maybe dark green, maybe black), sat calmly in his favorite chair, reading a hardbound book with no dust jacket to signify its content. Whatever the commotion, Obediah Sloan seemed unconcerned.

Now, as far as Callen could tell, there really were only two basic forms of leadership. There were leaders who would have immediately stuck their nose in and taken firm control of the situation before there was even a situation. And then there were leaders who just trusted their team to handle whatever problems arose. But Sloan didn't trust anyone. And as far as Callen had been able to make out, the man fell into a third category of leadership. Sloan seemed the sort who didn't anticipate problems, only dealt with them when they appeared, but did so with such a solid surety that his authority was never questioned. And it was easy to see why the man was never challenged. There was something deadly about the otherwise average-as-average-could-be man. He did not possess the crazy eyes of Moody, or the imposing strength and wolfish smile of Little John, nor any of the other apparent personality quirks of the others that denoted a disturbed mind. And he was far more dangerous than any of them; fiendishly clever and possibly evil (not that Callen particularly believed in such a concept).

The man rose to his feet only when the crowd of agitators stopped before him. Callen walked around the work bench. The nervous energy was catching, and leaning against the old table placed a large wrench just at his back in grabbing distance.

"Looksee what we found snoopin' about," said Rogers, whom Callen recalled had been on guard patrol for the night. There was a disgruntled grunt of protest and a small figure was shoved forward of the mass of agitated men that had been concealing him... or _her_. Definitely _her_, Callen concluded.

At a very cursory first glance, she could be mistaken for a teenaged boy, being of petite stature and build. But any look that persisted longer than a second would inform the observer that those jeans hugged femininely rounded hips and a full bottom of the variety you'd never find on a male. Not to mention that the flannel shirt, albeit not fitted, was unable to hide its obviously female contents. Despite the potentially troublesome situation, Callen couldn't help but admire the curves of the petite figure. It'd seemed like an eternity since he'd laid eyes on a woman (even in passing). And unfortunately, the same were true of the others, which set a deep seed of unease in his gut. Because he'd read some of their criminal records, and worse, he'd heard some of the stories they told about the 'deeds' they'd done.

Sloan stepped forward and tore the baseball cap off the head of the prisoner (for that's surely what she was). Auburn hair cascaded down to fall about her shoulders, glowing golden-red in the light of the setting sun. It was beautiful and familiar enough that it might have tipped him off on its own. But it was the features of her face no longer obscured by the shadow of the hat that sent a bolt of sheer panic and terror through G Callen. Even in profile, there was no mistaking her, and her name was a strangled outcry in the back of his throat that he barely managed to thwart.

_Nell Jones?!_

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**A/N: Uh-oh! What have our favorite agents gotten themselves into this time?**


	2. Chapter 2

**Author's Note: I see some familiar faces (or names as it were) in the reviews, so you lot are probably familiar with my writing style and hopefully won't consider me too much of a tease with these short little chapters…**

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**PART ONE: CALLEN**

**Chapter Two: Bailey's Brown-Chested Thrush**

_Nell Jones?!_

What the _fuck _was she doing here?! No one was supposed to know he was here. And how the hell had she found him? Unless, there was something else going on... But why would Hetty send the young intelligence analyst of all people? The questions would have to wait. He needed to focus on the present, on the danger he knew Nell was in, even if the petite agent was unaware herself. Which she most certainly wasn't. He could see the tension in her. Her hands fisted against her sides to prevent the trembling of her fingers from being obvious.

"And who are you?" Sloan asked, his voice smooth and seemingly kind. There was threat beneath the surface however, as there always seemed to be with the stoic yet disturbed man.

"Kr-Kristi," Nell stuttered, and Callen couldn't say whether she was faking being intimidated or not. But she obviously had a cover story to attempt.

"Well, Kristi..." Sloan said, "You seem like a smart girl, so you probably realize that we're more than a might curious how a girl such as yourself ended up so far off the beaten path."

"I'm sorry if I disturbed you..." She glanced around, and Callen's fingers closed around the cold metal of the wrench. Was he about to be made? She hadn't seen him yet and if she showed any sign of recognition... but her gaze just slipped over him along its evaluative circuit. "...gentleman. I didn't know anyone was out here when I set out surveying."

"Surveying?" Sloan pressed the young agent's cover.

"I work for the Audubon Society," Nell said, allowing herself to become animated as she discussed what was supposedly a passion of hers. "I'm out charting the nesting patterns of the Bailey's Brown-Chested Thrush. They were thought to be extinct from this area but hikers and the like have been claiming sightings. Would any of you happened to have seen one? They're about 20 inches long with a 15 inch wingspan, weigh about 2 ounces and vary from blue-grey to light-tan in coloring. Or maybe you've come across one of their nests. They'd-"

"Quiet," Sloan said, and Nell fell silent with a mock insulted frown on her face. The unreadable man turned to Rogers. "Where's her gear?"

"She only had this with her." Rogers threw a backpack on the ground between Nell and Sloan, and then indicated the pair of binoculars hanging from a strap around her neck. "And those."

"Why don't you have a seat, Miss... I'm sorry, I didn't catch your full name?" Callen often swore Sloan was worse than the horribly crude gang he'd put together. For there was something immensely more sinister in a mannered man with evil in his heart than those who simply had succumbed to the squalid, savage circumstances of their environment.

"Brewley. Kristi Brewley," Nell said. She stuck out her hand like any genial young woman would do upon introduction. "And you would be...?"

"Pleased to meet you," Sloan said, taking her hand. Callen did have to admit that the man _was _smooth. "Now, why don't you have a seat, Miss Brewley."

"I'd prefer to be on my way, if you don't mind." Valiant try, Nell. And in-character, but she must know they weren't going to let her go. Sloan still had her hand.

"I insist," he said, and there was that ominous edge of menace to his tone that gave Callen goose bumps along his spine. By clasping his other hand onto her elbow, he maneuvered the young woman around and forced her into the chair which he'd previously occupied.

"Keep an eye on our guest, Little John," Sloan said upon returning his attention to the group of men staring fixedly at the small red-head settled in the old armchair. "Rogers, bring her pack over here..."

Sloan continued to issue orders, but Callen found himself staring at the petite woman who had appeared like an apparition, a ghost from a life that he sometimes felt he might have unknowingly left behind forever. Her hair was much longer than the last time he'd seen her. But even so, he'd always thought the auburn locks to be straight as straw. They currently fell in loose curls about her shoulders. The hair framed her sharp cheekbones, which softened her appearance to one even more youthful. It looked as if she'd gotten a bit of sun exposure on her hike in, her nose and chin reddened in comparison to the rest of her pale skin. Her big eyes, which he'd always thought so expressive of her moods, seemed to be actually unreadable. Only the smallest flicker of emotion flashed in their hazel depths when their gazes locked for a mere second.

"I said, if it's not too much trouble, Jack, would you please clear the table?" Sloan's sharp tone cut through his stupidly indulgent reverie of studying Nell Jones. The man did not like having to repeat himself.

"Sorry," Callen apologized, and made to clear a spot on the table.

Little John laughed, mistaking Callen's reason for staring, but it was to his benefit, the agent supposed, for it covered his lapse. "She is a cute li'l thing, ain't she?"

It turned Callen's stomach slightly to hear the lewd edge in the big brute's voice, knowing the man was far from gentle with women. Or concerned with things like their consent, for that matter. His hand hesitated before depositing the wrench off to the side and out of his immediate grasp. When he turned back, Rogers had dumped the contents of Nell's pack onto the table, and Sloan was pawing through it. As far as covers went, tracking bird populations was nearly good enough to explain the array of various equipment she'd been toting along. Nearly.

"What does a bird watcher need with this?" Sloan held up the Glock Callen recognized as Nell's service weapon of choice. He adeptly checked and reloaded the magazine, then pointed it at the red-head being held in place by the two meaty paws of Little John resting on her shoulders. Callen's heart was pounding in his ears. _What the hell was the girl doing here? And how the _hell_ was he going to get her out of this in one piece?_

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**A/N: Buh-buh-buuuhh! Okay, I'm admittedly a total tease when it comes to fan fiction writing, even though it honestly be unintentional (But I do deliver eventually… so that's what counts, right?)**


	3. Chapter 3

**Author's Note: Just because I love you all so much… Have some more. (But then you might have to wait a bit for the next chapter.)  
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**PART ONE: CALLEN**

**Chapter Three: Bears…**

"What does a bird watcher need with this?"

"Bears," Nell said matter-of-factly.

"Bears?" Sloan was no longer buying her cover story in the least, if he ever had. "Never heard of pepper spray?"

Nell shrugged. Well, it would've been a shrug, had she not been pinned to the arm chair.

"Secure her in my office for now," Sloan ordered, indicating the one private room in the abandoned hangar, which had been claimed by the anarchists' leader without protest. Placing hands as large as the young woman's head beneath her armpits, Little John lifted Nell out of the chair as if she were as insubstantial as a doll. Callen felt his molars grind into one another as he caught the giant's hands squeezing the petite intelligence analyst's breasts, before she was deftly hoisted onto his shoulder. He couldn't allow the brute to be alone with Nell. Not even for a moment. So Callen stepped in front of the man who had at least a hundred pounds (of primarily muscle) on him.

The big man gave him a glare, half angry at being interrupted, half eager for a confrontation. Callen stood his ground. Gave him the 'I can and _will_ kill you' stare, even knowing that such a man as Little John will only be egged on by aggressive behavior.

"What do you want?" the brute asked. "You can have your turn with her later."

An extra flare of rage ran through Callen, but he fought the urge to do anything rash that would get both him and Nell Jones killed.

And then the huge man placed one of his paws on Callen's arm in order to push him aside and carry Nell off to do god-only-knew-what with the young woman. Callen refused to budge, instead grabbing the large hand by the thumb and twisting the digit around and back towards a forearm that was the size of one of the young woman's thighs. Little John raised his other hand to strike Callen, who was quickly determining how to keep his hold on the brute while dodging the blow that would doubtless be like being hit in the side of the head with a sledge hammer.

And then Sloan stepped in, saying in a voice barely raised above his normal dulcet tone, "That's enough."

Callen and his opponent glared fiercely at one another, but Little John lowered his free hand and Callen released the hold he had on the other.

"What's the problem?"

"He can't seem to wait his turn," Little John said, shooting another glare at Callen. Sloan turned to the man accused of impatience, raising an eyebrow at him.

"Really?" Sloan said.

"No," Callen replied, forcing himself to cool off slightly, acquiring a temperament more suitable to a general disgust than a specific fear for a certain woman's safety. "I just don't like to see women being forced in that way."

Little John only gave him a puzzled look, along the lines of 'Are you serious?' Sloan appeared amused by their bomb-maker's protest.

"Looks like we have a gentleman here," Sloan announced to the rapt audience. And rapt they were. For several weeks they'd been holed up in the middle of the goddamn wilderness, and this was like going to the movies.

"My mama raised me right, is all," Callen said. Moving to stand alongside him, Sloan draped an arm over Callen's shoulder in a pretty convincing imitation of camaraderie. Only Callen knew it was just a way for him to impose himself into the situation, to maintain direct eye contact with the aggressive giant of a man.

"You see, Jack, our Little John here never had a mother," Sloan stared directly at the undeniably physically stronger man. Little John was the one to look away. "And that can cause a man all sorts of problems."

And then Sloan turned his sharp gaze directly onto Callen.

"But why should you care?" The creepily calm anarchist asked.

"I'm just saying that whether or not we have to dispose of the young lady, it's not going to do any good to abuse her like that." Callen said calmly, thinking quickly of motives such a man as he was pretending to be would have for keeping these sick bastards' hands off from Nell. He wasn't sure he could prevent her from coming to harm entirely, but... he could damn well try. "You see, I had a cousin who was raped. She never said another word for the rest of her life."

Sloan was studying him intently, but Callen's instinct had taken over and he didn't even flinch inside his own head, left no room for self doubt as he told his tale.

"Granted, it was a _short_ rest of her life," Callen said. "She ate a bullet three weeks later."

"And you still think of her fondly?" Little John asked, sarcasm heavy on his tongue. Obviously the giant was irate over having his plans for the evening delayed, if not cancelled entirely. God, Callen hoped this would put an end to the big man's disgusting desire to play with the young woman. "What's the goddamn point of your warm little family tale?!"

"The _point_," Callen said. "Is that there are ways to break a woman so that she's useless. And there are ways to break a woman so that she's _still _useful to us."

Little John gave him a puzzled look, Sloan a knowing one. The anarchist leader (a concept Callen never had quite wrapped his mind around... shouldn't anarchists by nature be opposed to social organization on any level?) nodded his head, then spoke to the bear of a man.

"Our good friend Jack is saying that if we let you have your little fun with the _bird girl_, she's liable not to be in a state to tell us a damn thing. And there are a few questions I think we'd all like answered, such as who precisely she is, who she works for, and what they _know _about us."

Obediah Sloan turned to Callen, a fox-like smile twisting his average features.

"Would you be so kind to have a little _conversation_ with our guest?" Sloan asked.

_Got him_. The man thought he'd trapped Callen -well, _Jack_- into something he didn't want to do, to get their prisoner to confess, possibly with the employment of violence, because failure was not something Sloan would tolerate. _Sucker_. Now Callen had an excuse to get close to Nell, if not be entirely alone with her, to find out what was going on, to make a plan to get her safely out of there.

"Sure," Callen said. "Give me about an hour alone with her. I'll get her to talk."

"You have 30 minutes," Sloan said, always needing to assert his control. "And then Little John gets his turn."

_Well, shit._

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**A/N: How much do you love and/or hate me now, beloved readers? **


	4. Chapter 4

**Author's Note: Okay. So I've really taken to this style of short, teasing chapters. Guess I'm living up to that genre tag of 'Suspense', even though I doubted its relevancy when I first began posting this fic. But on the bright side, I'm finding this type of writing to be so enjoyable/easy that you're getting frequent updates (until you want to slap me because I'm so wordy that the plot doesn't get very far in such short chapters)… Enjoy?**

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**PART ONE: CALLEN**

**Chapter Four: Interrogation Tactics…**

Obviously upset at being thwarted in his designs to abuse Nell Jones, the great beast of a man all but threw the young woman at Callen, causing the smaller man to stumble back a step as he caught the petite red-head, wrapping his arms about her to steady her against his chest. Part of him, the part that missed his team mates, his _friends_, much more than the loner agent had ever expected, wanted to hug her. But he resisted, instead taking her by the arms and pushing her away from him. With all the appearance of being gruff in manner, he turned her about and marched her off into Sloan's 'office', giving the sinister man a nod as he passed.

Callen grabbed a small, wooden chair that had been sitting before the 'desk' (a rickety metal card table) and placed it with a 'thump' in the middle of the small room.

"Sit."

The command was not at all delivered in a pleasant tone. But he couldn't afford to let any esteem he held for the young woman show. Nell obeyed without a word. Callen closed the door on the would-be audience, turning them into simple eavesdroppers instead. When he turned back to Nell, the young agent gave him a nervous smile.

'Hi' she mouthed silently.

_Hi? Hi?! _That was all she had to say for herself? He forced his eyes off from the girl to make a quick assessment of the room, cool down and clear his head a little. Besides the makeshift desk, there was a cot with a Coleman's lantern sitting on an overturned milk crate beside it. Composition notebooks, maps, and various reference tomes were stacked neatly on the desk and nightstand. A duffel that must contain Sloan's personal belongings, such as clothing, was shoved under the cot. The only other thing in the space was a metal folding chair sitting in the corner, which would serve just fine. Callen retrieved the chair and deposited it directly in front of where Nell was sitting, straddling it backwards so that he could rest his forearm on the curved metal backrest and lean in close.

"Why are you here? Who sent you?" he asked in his normal talking voice, knowing whomever had their ear pressed to the flimsy door would be able to hear him. Oddly, they were questions he himself wanted answered, as well, only not so that the others could hear the true facts. Nell, being a smart girl, knew enough to play along. She had done surprisingly well thus far, for being stupid enough to have come in after him and gotten caught. She had only panicked as much as her cover alias would have. And she had not struggled when Little John had manhandled her, doubtless quelling an instinctive reaction to do so. Perhaps she had seen it in the monster of a man, that which Callen knew to be true from observation… her struggling would have been an invitation for the big man to hurt her.

"Like I told your friend, mister," she said, her voice tinged with anxiety and frustration. Whether or not that reflected her true emotional state at the moment, Callen could only guess. "I'm a surveyor for the Audubon Society. I'm sorry I trespassed. I didn't realize I had left the park. I won't tell anyone where you are. I promise. Just-Just let me go on my way."

"We might just do that, _Kristi_."

Despite the danger they were both in -especially Nell- Callen found himself sort of getting into the play-acting with the young woman. It was much more fun when your counterpart was also aware it was just a game. One with extremely serious consequences, yes. But instead of working against the person he was conversing with, and by default lying to, he had a partner, supporting the little play they were improvising. On some undeniable level, he liked having a partner again, even though if he didn't figure out something in the next half hour, it would be quite a short partnership.

"But if you keep lying to us..." he let himself trail off and then leaned in close to whisper in Nell's ear. To anyone listening outside the door, they'd assume he'd dropped his voice to issue low, terrifying threats at an intimate proximity.

"Did Hetty send you?"

Nell smelled like cedar. And her loose hair tickled his nose.

"No," she said, her voice barely audible even though she was close enough that her breath was hot in his ear. "Her hands were tied. And she doesn't know I'm here."

Damn it.

He turned his head away so as not to shout in her ear when he faked interrogatory questions once more.

"Are there others? How many? Where? What do they know?"

"I-I don't know what you're talking about." Nell's voice quavered, a subtle, realistic display of fear. And _wow_. She _was_ remarkably good for a primarily desk-bound agent.

He held up his hands about two feet apart, palms facing one another, and raised an eyebrow at her in question. She nodded. He struck his right hand hard against his left, creating a smacking sound to accompany Nell's perfectly-timed and rather accurate simulated grunt of pain. He felt his lips quirk as he fought a grin. He had not thought anything like this would be in her skill set, and he was admittedly impressed. She winked at him.

He put his interrogation face back on. "Try again."

"No. Please. Just-just _please_..." Nell faked a convincing sob as Callen resumed his seat before her, leaning in close enough to smell the cedar scent of her which he was beginning to very much like, and which he thought -with the bottom of his stomach dropping out- might be his last memory of the young woman ever. And when he whispered into her ear, he couldn't keep the angry edge out of his voice.

"Why did you come here, Nell? Don't you know how much danger you've put yourself in?"

"Someone had to warn you. The real Jack Corley has escaped custody and is likely on his way here. Your cover is about to be blown."

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**A/N: So some questions were answered, at least… right? But we have yet to find out how our agents will get out of this one! Stay tuned…**

**A/N2: Are you liking this short chapter (which more often than not ends in a cliffy of some variety) thing? Or would you prefer that I man up and give you a real dose in one go (which you will have to wait much longer for)?**


	5. Chapter 5

**Author's Note: Micro-chapter by my standards. But it was either this (since I hit a nice little breaking point in the story) or nothing through the weekend (will be away, woo!)… **

**WARNING: SOME COARSE LANGUAGE.**

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**PART ONE: CALLEN**

**Chapter Five: Pixies...**

_What?! Jack Corley was free? _That fucker was supposed to be in Guantanamo. God damn CIA assholes. Couldn't even shove one backwoods hillbilly terrorist into a hole that he'd never return from. And god damn himself for trusting those jerks to have his back, of thinking them capable of securing one little asset.

"Are you sure?"

"Positive," Nell whispered. "The CIA insisted they had it under control and so the director wouldn't let Hetty interfere. Sam is backing up Kensi and Deeks on busting a Mexican drug lord's arms deal and there was no time to wait for them to get back for a little off-the-books trip."

Well god damn him, too, for wasting time questioning Nell Jones' intel. That was her job. And unlike those CIA clowns, the petite analyst was good at her job (how she had tracked the random crew of anarchists down to this remote, secret place was beyond him), and she apparently was someone who actually had his back. And now it was up to him to cover hers.

"We need to get you out of here."

Fingers, delicate and cold on his cheek claimed his attention. He pulled away from her slightly to look directly into her hazel eyes.

"You're coming with me, right?" she asked in her nearly inaudible tone. "You can't stay here."

"Yes," he said grudgingly. "It will just mean all of these months spent under were for nothing. I still don't know their endgame."

Nell let her hand drop from his face and bit her lip, averting her eyes and looking embarrassed.

"I'm sorry."

He fought the urge to succumb to a good sulking rant. He probably could've handled Jack Corley. He probably could've maintained his cover. He probably could've figured out what Sloan's plans were before they executed them. He probably could've taken the anarchists down... _probably_. But when did anything go according to plan? And he certainly wasn't infallible. He should be grateful to Nell Jones that she had taken such personal risk to save his ass.

"Not your fault," he leaned in to whisper in her ear once more. She nodded her head silently, the motion causing her soft red curls to brush against his cheek. Briefly, he was distracted by the thought of telling her how much he liked her hair this way. But there wasn't any time for such pleasantries. He could worry about his… _partner's_ feelings later, when he was sure she'd still be able to have feelings for him to worry about.

Rising to his feet, he paced about, realized they'd been quiet for perhaps too long now, and said in an audible tone, "Are you ready to tell me now?"

Nell Jones finally looked up at him, recognizing his acquired manner and then dropping her momentary guilt over interrupting his undercover operation in order to resume her character.

"I've already told you-" His fake-slap startled her into a genuine outcry of surprise.

"You're lying. We know you're lying." He said harshly and then smoothed out the rough edges in his tone, a technique he'd developed over the years for interrogating suspects, which now came so naturally to him that he was able to simultaneously commit a good part of his brain to solving the primary problem at hand. "Just tell the truth, and this will only be a bad memory."

Nell laid on some pretty convincing sobs, and he resumed his seat in order to easily whisper in her ear once more.

"Even if we both had weapons, even guns with full magazines, we wouldn't make it out of here. There's seven very crazy, very violent assholes out there. What we really need is a distraction..."

He couldn't think of one he could set up without being noticed, not in the time frame he had to work with. As soon as he finished 'interrogating' Nell, she would be in severe danger. If he said he'd succeeded in breaking her and had gotten the truth, Sloan might kill her right off. If he admitted failure, then Sloan might give her to Little John to... No, in that case there _would_ be a blood bath, likely ending in both his and the junior agent's death (as well as several of the bad guys - the hell he was going out on his own). Because there was just no way Callen was letting that happen to Nell.

"Would about a dozen C4 charges placed within a 200 yard radius of the hangar work?"

Callen pulled back to study Nell Jones' face. He blinked incredulously at her. She smiled, a simultaneously sweet and menacing expression. The girl was a fricken _pixie_.

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**A/N: Okay, so perhaps you would've preferred hearing nothing from me until next week rather than this unsatisfying morsel, but hey, I still enjoyed writing it. **


	6. Chapter 6

**Author's note: Since I love you all so much, dear readers, here's a slightly longer update. Hopefully the updates will continue to be frequent, but Halloween is approaching, and a ghoul has to look her best so I have a bit of preparations to make.**

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**PART ONE: CALLEN**

**Chapter Six: Plans…**

Recovering from the shock of learning that the petite intelligence analyst had a bit of a taste for the destructive, Callen leaned in once more to whisper in her ear.

"Yes. I think that might do it. Detonator?"

"That's the tricky bit," Nell Jones whispered. "It was in my pack. Do you think you can get to it?"

"What does it look like?" The fact that he had to ask seemed silly, but with the tech savvy young woman...

"Fancy ball point pen."

_Point in case._

"I um... _borrowed _it from Hetty. It's monogrammed. Don't lose it. She'll be really pissed."

Callen was not surprised at the source of the spy gear, anymore (to be honest) than the fact that the Little Mother of OSP had probably packed Nell Jones' supplies (including the C4) like an affectionate mother handing a beloved daughter her lunch as she left for school. But how was he going to get to the detonator and keep the psychos off Nell's back?

"Tell them I'm a federal agent." Nell sounded deceptively calm and confident. But sitting so closely to her, whispering directly into her ear, he could see her heart pounding at the pulse point in her neck.

"They'll kill you."

"Then tell them I haven't given up everything."

No good. "They'll just send Little John to make you talk."

"I can handle him."

He pulled away from her to look her in the eyes and make sure she knew how serious this was.

"Nell," he whispered. "Even Sam Hanna would have a hell of time handling Little John."

"I can do this." Since she couldn't use volume to enforce her will in the tone of her voice, she over-enunciated instead, each word a sharply pronounced syllable. "It's our only way out."

"I might be able to buy you some time." If he let them believe he'd left her to stew over a particularly gruesome threat, they might stand down in order to soften her up a little. It was a standard interrogative technique. And sociopathic anarchist though he be, Sloan was a knowledgeable man.

Nell swallowed and nodded. "Let's do this, then."

Despite her apparent resolve, part of him needed to be absolutely clear about their operating procedure.

"Promise me something first." Her eyes were large, round, absolutely sincere and staring directly into him. She wouldn't be able to lie to him, even if she wanted to do so. "Promise me that no matter what, you'll do what I tell you."

Her eyes widened a little and she looked as if she were about to open her mouth to say something. Perhaps protesting his apparent need to confirm her loyalty, or maybe to question exactly why he thought she might not want to carry out any order he gave her. He didn't let her give voice to whatever concern she possessed, however, pressing onward, needing to know he could trust her.

"No matter how strange or counterintuitive, I need you to follow any order I give you." She nodded her head. Not good enough. "Is this going to be a problem for you?"

"No." It was a whisper by necessity, but a firm one. "I'll do whatever you tell me, no matter what. I promise."

"Good-"

"But don't do something stupid, like try to sacrifice yourself for me."

He smiled. "Wouldn't dream of it."

It was precisely the sort of situation he'd been thinking of, one in which the only way to get Nell Jones out safely would be distracting the bad guys himself, one in which he had to order her to get out and leave him behind. Because the girl _was_ loyal almost to a fault, to the point where she'd gone after him, against the director, without Hetty's blessing (official anyway), and without help from their team mates.

Well, better get on with this.

He moved to get up, but she grabbed his arm, drawing his attention back to her sweet, youthful face. God, she looked so young, so _innocent._

"Hit me," she said, her voice still low, her eyes intense.

"What?!" He barely managed to contain his alarm to a quiet whisper.

"Do I look like someone who has just been slapped around?" she asked. "Our cover is not going to hold for five seconds if someone peeks in at me, let alone for how long it will take you to get to the detonator."

"No, Nell." There was no way. There was just no way he was going to hit the young woman.

"I trust you." Big, honest, hazel eyes. Beautiful, and innocent as a child's. "I know you won't hurt me more than you need to for effect."

"I said 'no.' Do we need to rethink our plan? You promised-"

"I did promise." She took a breath, an attempt to control the whisper that had grown heated and threatened to become loud. "And I will do what you tell me. But you need to trust me too, and do what needs to be done. _Hit me_."

Callen knew she was right, but he really didn't want to do this. It was different fake-beating up on Sam (the man could handle it, thought it was amusing), or more often taking a beating himself from the big ex-seal in the line of undercover duty. But sue him, call him chauvinistic and sexist, he couldn't hit a woman. Not like this (and even when some crazy, highly trained assassin bitch was attacking him he found it difficult). And not Nell Jones. But god damn him, she was fucking right. There wasn't a mark on her pretty, smooth pale skin.

"Fine."

He felt his stomach knot as he gritted his teeth and tried to detach himself from the distasteful task. He stood, took a deep breath, and back-handed Nell hard across the face. The urge to squeeze his eyes tightly shut as he did it was profound but he'd fought it back. If he hadn't kept keen focus on his target (god, her fucking cute, innocent face), he could've damaged her much more severely. He was careful to regulate the force of the blow, so that it would leave a visible mark but no lasting damage. He could've broken several of her molars and fractured her jaw if he'd wanted to, and the thought only sickened him further. As it was, there was already a nasty red spot on her jaw, quickly turning purple as the broken blood vessels leaked beneath the skin. And he'd managed to split her lip slightly near the corner of her mouth. He watched in shocked fascination as she bit down on the small, bloody cut and worried her lip with her incisors, making the wound larger, more prominently swollen, and sucking in some blood to stain her white teeth. He hoped the cry she'd made when he'd struck her was likewise exaggerated play-acting, rather than an actual result of her suffering.

"How do I look?" she whispered, raising her face to look at him so he could assess the damage he'd done. Callen swallowed hard.

"Abused," he whispered. Pulling a small length of nylon cord from his jacket pocket (he had quite an array of useful things stashed in the green plaid wool coat), he walked around to the back of Nell's chair, and she obediently placed her hands behind her back. He tied the cord snugly around one wrist and then wrapped it about the other, using a Highwayman's Hitch knot, and slipping the end into her palm.

"Just tug on it and it will come undone," he whispered into her ear, breathing in that curious cedar scent of her and feeling the soft curls of her loose auburn hair tickle his nose and cheek as she nodded.

"Good luck." Her voice was a soft whisper, but sounded nervous.

"I got your back, Nell. I promise." If nothing else, he'd protect her to his last breath. That's what partners did. And when it came down to it, that's precisely what they were in this mess. _Partners._

"I know," she whispered.

* * *

**A/N: Our agents now have a plan, but how will it play out?**


	7. Chapter 7

**Author's Note: Updates (obviously) are no longer happening daily at this point. Sorry. Life is busy. And I may have gotten distracted by writing random portions of other (yes, also Nell & Callen) fics that unfortunately are not sequentially relevant to any of my current stories (aka, they are bits that belong several chapters ahead). **

**But, at any rate… enjoy…? Although we aren't quite to the actiony-action bit yet.**

**WARNING: COARSE LANGUAGE**

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**PART ONE: CALLEN**

**Chapter Seven: Ultimatums...  
**

"Kristi," Callen said, putting on his interrogation face. "Are you listening to me?"

Nell Jones had begun sobbing again, and it was so convincing he wondered whether he hadn't actually hurt her worse than he'd thought in striking across the face. For well he knew how badly it smarted being smacked like that.

"I can't understand you," he said. This was just an act. He kept telling himself that it was all pretend as he watched the tears stream down the young woman's pale cheeks. "Speak up. Are you listening very closely to what I'm telling you?"

"Y-yes." She sucked in a ragged breath between sobs.

"Good. Because I want to be absolutely clear." He was speaking loudly and firmly, with the excuse of having to get through to his hysterical prisoner, but for the real purpose of ensuring those outside the door heard his every word, and hopefully bought the act. God, he hoped they bought it. Really, it was only Sloan whom Callen needed to sell it to, but it wouldn't be easy. He hadn't wanted to get Nell's hopes up (or his own) but if he could pull it off, they'd be able to walk out of the hangar together, and Sloan would probably even have Little John open the fucking door for them with a smile.

"I'm going to leave you alone now," he said aloud with a conviction and authority that he hoped Sloan would not wish to undermine by over-ruling 'Jack's' decision. Because it would make them appear divided and weak to the woman they wished to intimidate into confessing.

"And when I come back in five minutes, it will be your last chance. Do you hear me? Your _very last _chance to tell me the truth." He softened the hard edge in his voice. "Don't you think your life is worth a little honesty, Kristi?"

He waited expectantly. 'Kristi' had stopped blubbering but was still looking down at her lap, defeated and unresponsive. Nearly forgetting that he was simply playing a part, Callen strode over to the petite red-head, grabbed her chin and forced her to look up at him. Nell Jones' big hazel eyes, red-rimmed and shimmering with tears, startled him, as if he'd expected to find a different face on his victim. He released her, shook off the surrealism of the moment, of being consumed by an alias only to be jerked sharply from it.

"Well?" he asked, composed once again. "Do you think your life is worth a little honesty?"

"But I am being honest." The words were small and meek.

"I'm not going through this with you again," he snapped. "You're lying. You know you're lying. _We_ know you're lying. And when I return in five minutes, you're going to tell me the truth. Or you're life is going to become very unpleasant, in ways worse than the ones we discussed. _Do you understand_?"

The only sound that came from her lips was a desperate sob.

He turned away from where she sat 'tied' to the chair and opened the door.

"I'm telling the truth!" She half-screamed, half-sobbed at his back, her voice cracking painfully. "I'm nobody. Just let me go. Please! _Please!_"

He calmly shut the door on her pleas, after letting the crowd just outside get a good look at the hysterical mess of a young woman. Even the group of psychopathic, callous and cruel bastards wore surprised expressions on their hardened faces. Yup. Nell Jones had missed her fucking calling.

Sloan however, had as placid and unreadable look on his face as ever.

"Very nice work, Jack," Obediah Sloan said. "But did you glean anything of actual use while tormenting the poor girl?"

Callen shrugged nonchalantly, but let the tiniest bit of unease show through his facade.

"She's insisting that she's exactly who she said she is."

"Do you believe her?"

Callen bit his lip, trying to look a bit uncertain but without overdoing it. "I'm honestly not sure. She seemed terrified by the...um... _threats _I made, pleaded with me not to..." He grimaced in disgust "..._hit_ her again. If she's lying, she's impossibly good."

Sloan nodded slowly, giving no outward sign as to whether he thought Nell to be the innocent stray bird-watcher, or a conniving federal agent. Or for that matter, whether or not he was buying Callen's whole 'hesitant thug' routine.

"Did you find anything in her belongings?" Callen asked, walking over to the workbench where her pack and its contents were spread out. He picked up the tablet computer, tried to turn it on, knowing that Nell had installed an extra hidden switch in her field tablets (just in case) and that it wouldn't respond to compression of the power button alone.

"Dead," Sloan said flatly. The man always sounded like he were somewhere else, as if he spent the majority of his time existing on a separate plane from the rest of them, yet he was always hyper-aware of his environment and everyone contained therein. Probably one of those genius-level sociopaths. "Must not have anticipated a long hike."

Sloan indicated the radio tagging equipment and tracking device, the equally 'dead' cell phone, the hair brush, and the noticeable lack of food or emergency supplies. (Which wasn't at all like Nell. He wondered if she had stashed her real kit out in the woods... Like he himself had placed a little emergency pack when he'd been able to sneak off for a moment.) There was a spiral bound notebook with hand-written series of numbers and short descriptions, a pretty convincing rendition of scientific field notes, incomprehensible jargon to the uninitiated to the specific area of study. And lying beside the notebook... a _fancy pen_.

"I'll make her talk. Well, scream, at least."

Little John. Fucking psychotic, sadistic, asshole. Over Callen's fucking dead body would the man lay a hand on Nell Jones. _Focus. _He couldn't afford to lose it now. They were so close. He felt like Sloan was just on the edge to forming the precise conclusion Callen wanted him to make, was (hopefully) subtly leading him towards.

"No." Sloan said. "She's not a threat." He stared reproachfully at Little John. "She's just becoming a _distraction_."

"What about the gun?" Little John asked. Apparently, it was the encore presentation of the night, for the others had gathered around the three men once more ensconced in a heated debate of entertaining proportions.

"Lots of chicks carry pistols nowadays," Jackson Wiles, also known as 'old timer', volunteered from the spectators' circle. "The world's just not a safe place no more."

Every man in the room turned incredulous gazes at the man who'd stood up for 'Kristi Brewely' and her justification to carry a firearm.

"What?" the grey-haired, wizened, flannel-clad geezer asked, with an oblivious expression. Apparently, Jackson was not aware of the irony in someone bent on causing anarchy and destruction lamenting the violent state of the world.

Sloan seemed to opt not to educate the hopeless cause, only blinking off the stupefying statement that had just been made before he issued his final orders. And they would be _final_. No further dissention would be tolerated.

"Jack said he'd give the girl some time to think it over, with some proper motivation to tell the truth, to judge by her..." He paused and they could hear Nell keening through the thin corrugated metal walls, vacillating between begging and desperate, incoherent sobbing. "...persistent wailing. And then we'll see what she has to say. But I'm liable to believe she is just a girl who's wandered off into the dangerous part of the woods, and unfortunately, is too nosy for her own good."

Oh, Sloan was definitely biting. Callen just needed to sink the hook and reel him in. And leave him flopping on the shore while he and Nell booked it for the woods. If it worked, then he wouldn't need to use the C4 charges Nell had rigged before being caught, except maybe to give their escape a little extra cover.

So while the others were busy paying attention to Sloan or staring at the door that held the hysterical young woman, Callen slipped the _fancy pen_ into a voluminous pocket of his jacket that also held a few paperclips, bits of wire, and chewing gum. Everything MacGyver could ever want…

* * *

**A/N: Next time… explosions? Maybe…? You'll have to stay tuned to find out.**

**Completely Random Note: Whatever they're trying with RFS' hair in early season 5 just needs to stop. What was wrong with that super cute longer pixie cut she used to sport? Or let her wear it long and loose. Or what I'd like to see is a nice, short, messy, spiky pixie cut on her. I think that would be very adorable (without making her look childish, if that's what they're trying to avoid with this awkward hair). As you can tell, I've ignored the reality of Nell Jones' long hair and substituted my own here. Because she's SO cute and deserves pretty hair. Right?**


	8. Chapter 8

**Author's Note: Look! A micro-chapter… better than nothing, though, right? :-)**

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**PART ONE: CALLEN**

**Chapter Eight: The Best Laid Plans...  
**

Oh, God help him.

Nell Jones made small, mewling-like cries, her breath coming in strained wheezes as Callen felt the relatively rigid cartilage of her trachea compress beneath his palm. Sloan, along with as many of the others that could squeeze into the small 'office', accompanied him for the second interrogation of the cute girl captive. There was no way to fake the violence this time, not with half a dozen gazes locked on him and the young woman.

She'd stuck with the original cover, when Callen had come in and asked her 'for the last time' to tell the truth, giving her the minutest shake of his head in the negative. And so, Sloan had ordered him to press her harder. He'd hesitated, as much for the ploy he was attempting to con the anarchist with, as for the fact that the last thing he wanted to do was to hurt Nell. But Sloan had insisted. And the sooner Callen complied, the sooner they could get the hell out of there... if his loose, highly dubious plan actually worked.

"The truth, Kristi," he said firmly, releasing the pressure of his hand on Nell's vulnerable throat. She coughed, a wet, hacking sound followed by a large gasp as she sucked in air once more. He'd choked her so severely that she'd begun to squirm, kicking her feet out and making him step to the side of the chair as he continued to constrict her airway, which had only made her struggle harder. It spoke much to Nell's fortitude that she did not tug the knot loose that bound her wrists in the panic for air, to claw desperately at the hand squeezing her throat.

"I'm telling you the truth." Her voice was raspy, damaged from being choked and hoarse from sobbing and crying. Her face was wet with fresh tears. "Please. Just stop. Please."

Callen looked back at Sloan, raising an eyebrow in question. The sociopath nodded, so he rose to his feet to confer with him in low tones that were inaudible above the noise of Nell's labored breathing.

"I think she's on the level," Callen whispered. "We should just let her go."

"Agreed," Sloan said. "But we won't be letting her run off to report being kidnapped and assaulted."

Callen swallowed, nodding as if in reluctant acceptance of the man's decision, a look of disgust on his face. And Sloan took the bait.

"And you're going to take care of her."

"I'd rather not," Callen said, doing a happy dance inside of his head. He just knew the man wouldn't be able to resist pushing Jack Corley, testing his resolve and comittment to the anarchists' cause.

"If you want her to have a humane death, I'd suggest you accept the task I've given you," Sloan said. The threat wasn't a direct one. Sloan himself would be efficient and cold about killing the young woman. The threat was in the fact that the older man would simply hand off the job to one of the more sadistic, insane members of their merry little band of psychopaths.

"Fine," Callen said. "I'll do it. When?"

"The sooner, the better." Sloan turned his attention to the rest of the group, his voice gaining that commanding edge that did far more for his being heard than any amount of shouting would've done for any other person. "Show's over, boys. You all have work to do. Get back to it."

They dispersed with a couple of grumbles, filing out of the small room.

"Stay a minute, Little John," Sloan said as the big man brushed by Callen with more than a little aggression in the action.

"What do you want, boss?" The giant of a man asked.

"I want you to assist -mind you, I say_ assist_- Jack in disposing of Bird Girl here." Sloan stared down the man who was over a foot taller and a hundred pounds heavier than he. And did so successfully. "You're only to help him clean up. Understood?"

"Yes." The reply was more grumble than recognizable speech, but the submissive tone was response enough apparently to satisfy Sloan.

"Good." Sloan turned towards Callen, drawing Nell's Glock from the waistband at the small of his back and handing it over to the undercover federal agent. "Take her out back."

Shit. Shit. Shit.

He and Nell _would_ be walking out of the hangar together. But the worst bastard Callen had ever meant would be going with them.

* * *

**A/N: More soon… possibly… (depending on Halloween fun!)**


	9. Chapter 9

**Author's Note: Sorry guys. I honestly didn't forget about this fic. Just got busy. And distracted by other fics. Either way, I enjoy some action, but this bit I'm just not too sure about…**

* * *

**PART ONE: CALLEN**

**Chapter Nine: The Fall of Little John...**

G Callen was not perfect. Far from it, in fact. He was an emotional cripple, really, incapable of allowing anyone to get too close, to become too entrenched in his life. Also, he admittedly probably had temper issues. While not all that quick to anger, his ire was quite severe when roused and difficult to diffuse. It was hard for him to be a team player. And obey the rules. And even his undercover and combat skills were not infallible.

Because, well, he really should've seen it coming.

In fact, he had anticipated such a play, and had kept his senses honed on the big man who'd been following closely behind him as he walked Nell out into the overgrown air field. But of course, the savage beast chose the precise second Callen had lapsed, dropping his guard for the briefest moment to catch Nell Jones as she stumbled on the uneven ground before him.

A shovel to the upper back is a pretty good wake up call. No. Strike that. It's a pretty good call for 'lights out', even if it hadn't been a direct blow to the head. Callen felt his legs give and he crumpled to the ground, incidentally taking Nell with him as the world began to fade.

It could only have been a matter of seconds that he'd been unconscious. Little John didn't seem the type to wait patiently for his prey to wake before offing them. And Callen had come round suddenly to Nell's shout of alarm.

"Callen!"

Spitting some dead grass out of his mouth, he rolled onto his back to find that Little John had recovered Nell's Glock, which Sloan had previously handed off to Callen (boy, that little gun got around). The young woman was pushing herself up off the ground, a fresh red mark stark against her pale cheek. But there was no time to curse the asshole for hitting her while the agent who should've been protecting her had been knocked out. Callen hastily rolled to the side, but not quickly enough to get out of the way of a bullet. Lucky for him, Nell had been quicker, springing at the giant man and knocking his arm so that the shot he squeezed off went wide.

Callen scrambled to his feet, feeling the world spin around him, taking a couple of faltering steps as Nell struggled with the thug, who'd gotten a fistful of her hair and was twisting her around to throw her harshly to the ground once more. Little John appeared unarmed, not that it was much help, but where had the Glock gone?

No time to search the tall grass, for the beast was bearing down on him once more. Callen ducked the oafish punch thrown at his head and struck his opponent in the stomach, sadly, to not much effect. He added a few more hits before the big man got his meaty paws on Callen's throat, which was really not at all a good thing. He tried every counter he'd ever been trained in, witnessed, or read about in cheap spy novels, but to no avail. Just when the world seemed like it was beginning to fade (for the second time in a matter of minutes), the giant jerked suddenly backward, releasing his hold on Callen's larynx to claw at his own neck... at the rope stretched taut and cutting _into_ his thick, sinewy neck.

Nell had loosed the trick-knot binding her wrists and was now using the nylon rope as a weapon. And it was a pretty effective one, even if there was no way the petite woman had enough power to choke out the man who was easily two-and-a-half times her size. For her feet were not touching the ground. She must have jumped up, gotten lucky enough to throw the rope over Little John's head and garrote him good, her entire weight now providing the force with which to strangle the giant. Coughing until his eyes watered, Callen could nonetheless see the tendons strain and tighten in the big man's neck. He could somewhat sympathize, the memory of not getting enough oxygen into his lungs rather fresh in his mind. But he needed to help Nell bring the man down, and fast.

Where was the Glock?

He ran his gaze over the two-foot tall grass, looking for any disruption that could possibly represent a pistol-sized depression. Maybe three feet off to his left? Or over there, four feet to his right? Nell made a yelping noise as Little John began to thrash, finally realizing that if he couldn't get the rope off his neck, maybe he could get the tiny woman off his back. It was nearly comical. The petite red head was holding on tight to the ends of the rope, like a bridle, her legs drawn up so that her knees and toes were digging into the giant man's back stabilizing her as he wrenched this way and that, spinning slightly and bucking like a bronco... or a bull. A mad one. But Callen could tell that she was close to losing her grip, her face flushed and an intense, borderline panicked expression on her face.

Callen engaged in a hasty game of 'Glock? Glock? Where's the Glock?', conceding to the fact that he had to get down on all fours and feel around through the densely overgrown grasses that would be more at home on an African savannah... well, one with no large herbivores to keep it under control. Meanwhile, he could hear Nell continue to struggle in her attempt to choke out the giant. The brute must be growing weaker by now. Granted, it'd only been about twelve seconds, but-

Nell Jones cried out and there was a muted thump as she hit the thickly-covered ground. He really, really needed to find that gun. Rock. Clump of grass. There. Nope. Twig. Damn. C'mon. C'mon! The-

A heavy hand, larger than a boxer's, a miner's, a man who bent steel girders using only his pinkies, clamped down on his shoulder just as his fingers wrapped around the cold grip of the much-traveled Glock 26. He pulled it from the tangle of thick grasses, fragrant with earth and damp, hoping that the weapon hadn't been compromised in any way by its tumble. They tended to be pretty sturdy side arms and he was about to find out, as he was tugged by the shoulder and thrown onto his back upon the ground once again (doubtless to have his face stomped in).

He took a quick, evaluative look, was reassured Nell was clear and he had a clean shot, and then compressed the trigger, putting a bullet square into Little John's heart at a distance of five feet. The large man toppled like an ancient redwood, with a brief wavering in the canopy, gradually intensifying until the vast trunk was vacillating significantly, and then_ timber! _falling to the side and impacting the ground with a force that caused a tremor in the earth that Callen could feel where he lay several feet away.

It took several seconds to convince himself to get to his feet, and several more for him to actually accomplish the task. His lungs were still raw from his near strangulation, every inhalation burning slightly. And there was an intense throbbing pain pulsing near his spine where he'd been struck with the shovel between his shoulder blades. He groaned, shook himself briefly, and focused his attention on the still extremely dangerous situation he was in. He... and_ Nell_.

The younger agent was already on her feet. She made eye contact with him and he nodded, keeping the Glock drawn, but averted as Nell prodded the motionless giant with the steel-toe of her hiking boot and then bent over him, checking for a pulse at the purpling, bruised flesh of his neck. She shook her head once, quickly, her mouth a thin line, all emotion tucked away behind her hazel eyes as she looked up at him. He nodded in acknowledgement, and offered a hand to help her to her feet.

"We've got to get out of here," Callen said. One gunshot was what the gang of anarchists back in the hangar were expecting. Two gunshots... spaced out by a minute or two, however... "Now."

The charges came in handy after all, as Callen handed the Glock back off to its rightful owner, determined which direction his emergency stash was located, and booked it for the woods, keeping hold of Nell's hand in one of his, the detonator in the other. When they hit the tree line and heard shouts, he asked Nell if they were clear. When she confirmed they were actually a safe distance from any of the charges, he pressed the detonator.

And the forest exploded around them.


End file.
